Page 93 of Santa's Baby

My eyes widen in shock, because he can’t be for real. Him tampering with my bookings and me blagging to Orla that I’ve got some personal shit going down is one thing… but to cancelthe founders, with their reputation, and status and the huge sum of money involved. That’s a whole other ballgame. A serious one.

I stiffen underneath him.

“Are you being serious?”

“Deadly.”

“But that’s–”

“Insane, yes. I know. It won’t please them. But people get flu, Tiffany. People get unwell.”

I have to laugh. “I’d have to be pretty fucking unwell to cancel a founders’ gig. Hardly a gold star on my agency resume.”

Reuben slams me deep. Harder.

“I don’t want other men to give you gold stars, Tiff. I don’t want other men to give youanything, especially not while I’m in the same fucking room as them.”

So much for slow and sensual. He angles his cock into me so sharply that I’m wriggling, groaning like a bitch as he works me up.

“I want you to cancel the founders’ proposal,” he says. “I can’t do it for you. Not without raising suspicions, so it would have to come from you. You’d have to be the one to feign illness and hit the cancel button.”

I don’t want to answer him yet, because the idea of cancelling the founders gives me serious heebies. It’s not anything I ever thought I’d be doing. Most of the hardcore team of entertainers would give anything for a night of that value. For the recognition in the Agency that brings. I’ve relished it, time after time, like a status symbol.

What I do want right now is for Reuben to make me come, and unload into me before we leave for the grotto today. I let out a grunt and urge him on.

“Make me come, please. I need to fucking come, Reuben. Take my insanity and use it. You drive me fucking wild.”

The kisses come back, deep and all consuming. We’re a sweaty mess of flesh and lust as he unleashes the pent-up want that he’s been stoking. I don’t give a fuck when I gush and soak the sheets underneath us. I keep pushing down on his dick, spraying like a hose until he curses against my lips and comes inside me. Deep inside me. Thrusting hard with every spasm of his rock-hard cock.

My sex god Santa.

Mine.

Anyone would be lucky to have him, even for a few days. Christmas is being kind to me for once, but will my good fortune last?

It feels like for ever, our panting breaths as one as he holds me, his dick still inside me.

“That was amazing,” I tell him.

He drops a kiss on my nose and eases his cock free.

“We need to make a move,” he says. “Don’t want to be late,” and heads off to the ensuite.

I feel so awkward as we shower together. There is no soaping each other up. No languorous kisses. Santa is in a hurry, that much is obvious. It’s also obvious that Santa is stewing over the fact that I didn’t grant his Christmas wish.

Fuck.

“Jam? Marmalade? Butter?” he asks when we hit the kitchen. “I’m still unsure of your breakfast favourites.”

“Just butter, thanks.”

I watch him making my toast, sitting at the breakfast bar and kicking my heel against the leg of the stool.

Can I do what he wants of me? Really? Is it worth the risk of pissing off the Agency, and leaving a black mark on my scorecard, AND missing out on nearly one hundred grand?

It’s one hell of a fucking decision for 7.30 a.m. after a few hours’ sleep.

I’m supposed to be acting like an elf today, not a headcase. So, I should leave it. Think things through when I’m not high on Santa vibes and waiting for the toast to pop from the toaster.